And They All Fall Down
by algie888
Summary: With Sherlock gone, what hold purpose? What's the point?


"Doctor Watson?"

Silence.

She was nervous now. Her voice quavered with a piteous attempt to restrain tears.

"Doctor Watson?"

Silence.

Molly shivered. The flat had been warm and inviting, yet cold and harsh when she had gone that one Christmas not so very long ago. It was a mix of John and Sherlock personified into a room. It seemed as though she was always watched in that house, and as though she were a guest. Now it just seemed dead.

"John?" She said his first name tentatively, as though scared he might break.

Molly fumbled with the clasp of the handbag she held, the sound of the zip against leather sounding so loud all of a sudden. Yet he still said nothing. Molly let out a shaky sigh, and sat across from him on the armchair. He didn't look up when the chair creaked, when her heels clacked against the table, or when her back thumped against the carpet. He was usually so alert, so quick.

"John. I know you must feel..." she trailed off as she realised her words had no effect.

Rewind, escape, turn off and on again.

"This has to hurt you, I understand that. And I-"

No. Still nothing.

"You have to keep living, John. You have a whole life out there for you," she stopped herself, shaking her head. Molly did post-mortems. Who was she to lecture about life?

Molly glanced around the room, taking in the skull on the mantel, the coat that still hung on the door, and the bloody harpoon gun. If this had been anyone else' house, and they had a skull next to a harpoon gun, Molly would have called the police. But not in the house of Sherlock Holmes.

"Just take care of yourself, John." Molly murmured, picking up her back from the floor. He barely registers her moving towards him, his gaze focused on the wall.

She leaned down to kiss his cheek, and got up quickly. She kept her gaze trained on the door, not wanting to look at anything that held the ghost of Mr Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>He rapped on the door smartly with his knuckles, three times, two point five milliseconds between each knock.<p>

Silence greeted him.

He pushed the door open, and Mycroft stood on the threshold of 221B Baker Street. The house seemed rather pleasant, although there was a lot to be desired in terms of organisation. Mycroft sat down opposite John, his umbrella resting on his knees. Judging by the precarious positioning of the duvet, someone had just placed it on him quickly before rushing off. He had been silent for over five hours, if the lines on his mouth were anything to go by, and in shock. Mycroft lay a file down on top of a small pile. He noticed two tickets to 'The Woman', a music tour, and a stack of notes for an impending case. Obviously the butler. He took one look at John, and got up without another word.

* * *

><p>The smile that stung her face did not reach her eyes. It hurt to seem happy, but she must. On the way in she had glanced in a mirror, taking in her beaming smile and crying eyes. A careful fix with makeup covered up emotion.<p>

"John!" Donovan cried, pushing her way into the room. He didn't look up at her the way he used to. She didn't care.

Sally Donovan stepped over piles of books and discarded weaponry to sit across from him, and in the silence she took the opportunity to stare at the man who sat before her. She was a good judge of person. She had to be, she had to know that one man or another was the right one to add to her list of broken hearts she trails in her wake. His eyes were dry, his hair was clean, his expression - blank.

For the first time in her life, Donovan wished that the Freak were still around. He'd be able to tell her why she was acting like this, with that crazy thing he did with his mind. She had told him. She had told John Watson on that very first day. People could get hurt by sticking around Sherlock Holmes. And people did. But Donovan never thought it would be Sherlock himself. Though John had also been hurt, maybe more so than Sherlock. Donovan supposed that Sherlock could have just brushed John's death off as collateral damage. There were only flatmates, and their only duty to each other was to pay the rent. There was no need for this sort of mourning John was giving him. But Sherlock had died, not John. And John was human. He felt emotion.

Sherlock had been so selfish.

* * *

><p>They weren't enemies, or whatever the man had. But they weren't friends either. They danced the divide between adequate acquaintances and hate.<p>

As much as Anderson hated to admit it, he needed Sherlock, Sherlock needed him. Anderson let Sherlock blow off steam, throw insults at people, make him feel far more superior than all the other forensic scientists, maybe even the world.

And Anderson needed someone to yell at. He needed someone to have shoot quips at, to mutter snide insults behind his back. It was a twisted relationship, but it worked. Sherlock had never played an important role in his life. He was just on the occasional case, and only ever when Lestrade was there.

The bloody DI was useless. He always needed help.

It was ridiculous - he was a Detective Inspector! He should be doing it himself, not calling in the civillians. The man was a genius, Anderson had to admit that. But just because he could do deductive leaps in the blink of an eye didn't mean they were instantly best friends. It simply meant that Sherlock Holmes was a nuisance. Anderson sat down in front of John, slamming some papers down.

"Here is the documentation of the last case," he sneered at John before slapping a folder on top of the pile, "and these are for your next case."

John said nothing, and Anderson heaved an over dramatic sigh.

"Didn't you hear me? Your next case. It's tomorrow morning. Do it, or lose it. We are capable enough," he sniffed, and turned on his heel.

Anderson slammed the door shut behind him, and raced down the stairs to that coffee shop under the flat. He lunged for the last seat, the one at the end of the small restaurant, ignoring everything around him. He couldn't believe he had just done that. He had just insulted a man recovering from his best friend's death, and Anderson had practically laughed in his face. He was a disgusting human being.

Sure, Anderson didn't like Sherlock. Nor did he like John.

"God," Anderson muttered, folding his fingers together and resting his elbows on the table, "you know I don't believe in you. You know I think you're a load of farce - but if you're not, if you're out there - keep John Watson safe."

* * *

><p>Irene paused to look at herself in the mirror, adding more make up to her eyes to cover up the red splotches. She wasn't sure why she was doing this. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. They weren't lovers, they didn't hate each other.<p>

They were more of a fascination, like two predators circling in the dead of night. An un-love story. She didn't bother knocking, and instead marched straight in. The blonde man on the armchair didn't seem to care. Irene smiled despite herself, and she knew he hated the pity she gave him. If she were in his place, Irene would be doing the exact same thing.

"Hello, John," she said, unclipping her bag as though this were the most natural thing in the world. "I've been a bit busy lately with my witness programme life - New Jersey is nothing like London."

No answer from him. She persevered. John needed to know that there was a world beyond Sherlock, even if that world was almost not worth it.

"I'm a singer there, you know." Irene muttered, fishing around inside her bag for a box of matches. "I'll be on tour, and everything."

One strike with the match.

"Of course, I'll do my typical line of work," the second strike, "but more for recreation than protection."

Three strikes.

Flame.

* * *

><p>"For god's sake, John." Lestrade cried, annoyed at the fact the man wouldn't answer. "I know you're bloody upset, but that doesn't mean you have to turn into a zombie!"<p>

Silence.

Lestrade sighed, leaning forwards. "Sherlock was a genius. The Universe has lost one of its greatest allies. We all understand this. But it can't lose another one."

Silence.

"I know what happened. He fell, didn't he? He fell at Reichenbach." Lestrade fixed John with a dark eye, "And so did you."

"Do you know why we fall, John?" Lestrade asked, getting up from his seat. "Do you know why humanity has to fall?"

Silence.

"It's so we can learn to pick ourselves up again." Lestrade patted John on the shoulder, and left the room. The door slammed shut.

"No." John murmured into the dead night. "It's not," he sighed, glancing around at what had once been his home. "

'To pick ourselves up'," he muttered, and laughed humourlessly. "Not for me."

"Not for me."


End file.
